Chapter Text
"Shalom, blogosphere. It's Jacob Ben Israel here at McKinley High." Jacob moves backward through a corridor full of students, "It's the big SY – Senior Year – who will climb the totem pole? Who will fall? Who will be seen working the gas station across the road next year? We will have all the exclusives and more."
The camera stops on Santana, who's pointedly ignoring the two of them and filing her nails, "What are you doing after high school? Joining the local softball team?"
"Homicide, ideally." Santana glares from her position at the lockers. Jacob ignores it and gestures off-screen excitedly. The camera swings to watch Tina and Mike walk off together, hands mingled at their sides, and the camera swings back to capture Jacob's calculating expression and Santana's furious one, "You are an affront to human evolution, you fucking degenerate."
Jacob ignores her as the camera rushes off down the hallway to catch up to Mike and Tina, Jacob calling out, "Is that still allowed if you're only half-related?"
They look back once, eyes going wide in alarm, before immediately rushing off to avoid the camera, whilst Jacob shouts out, "You can't run from the truth!"
The cameraman swings his camera beckoningly at Jacob, showing Kurt and Blaine looking at something on Kurt's phone, before Jacob snaps out of his short-lived funk and hurries down with his microphone, "What are you two homos doing after high school?"
Blaine startles at the sudden appearance, but Kurt just directs a suffering look at the camera, "It's none of your business, Jacob. Buzz off."
"The people deserve to know."
"Well, I'm probably going to pursue New York and music after high school," Blaine says easily after his shock has worn off.
Jacob looks into the camera after gasping, "Wrow, I hear a new story coming soon on JBI News: Is Blaine actually a massive flamer or does he just act like that because of his lack of a father figure? This hard-hitting piece of journalism is gonna be premiered next week on JBINews.com so make sure to log in!"
---
"Hi, Santana," Emma greets, voice polite and measured, as she always is, standing up like a spooked deer as she directs her to sit in the chair opposite her own, "Please come in, um, it's great to see you, um, engaging!"
"You called me in here, I ain't engaging in shit." Santana huffs, sitting down and throwing her backpack on the ground, "And really? Too little, too late. I'm totally fine now, you should've been doing something last year before I got assaulted."
Emma steeples her hands on the desk awkwardly, "Ah, well… I, uh, I am very sorry about that, um, but I was actually calling you in here to ask about your plans for after senior year. I heard from Will who let me know that you weren't particularly interested in pursuing college. But, well, you have a good aptitude for things, Santana, so it would be a real shame to see that go to waste."
"Ha. No way, college is for losers. No me gusta." Santana rolls her eyes, "I'm getting out of this shithole, and I'm taking my GF and we're totally moving to some coastal city somewhere. Adios, suckers."
Emma nods thoughtfully, "Well, while that is, um, incredibly ambitious… I have to ask; do you have any more concrete plans?"
Santana shrugs, "No way. Planning is for nerds, and we're both awesome. There's no way we won't figure it out once we're there."
Emma grimaces.
---
"So, Blaine, I have to say, your test scores are amazing, you could easily make valedictorian if you keep up with these grades," Emma praises, "And I heard that you're interested in pursuing music theory at Juilliard?"
"Yeah." Blaine nods, awkwardly, taking a deep inhale, "Um, is there a problem with that? Are you only calling me in here to tell me I'm wasting my talent, that I'll never amount to anything in a music degree, and that I should be going into, like, medicine or law, or something, if I want to be useful to society?"
"No, not at all!" Emma grins, "No, no, of course not, Blaine. It's great that you've taken such a strong interest in the arts. And your test scores only prove that you're a capable and ambitious young man. Very few students come into this office with such detailed, realistic plans after high school."
Blaine exhales, happily, "Okay, great. Great."
---
"Miss Pillsbury, while I thank you for taking an interest in my future, can I please ask why you are forcing me to talk about it with him in the room?" Rachel points at Kurt like he's a feral, rabid animal, and is about one glance away from mauling her. Which, honestly, doesn't sound that far from the truth.
"Well, um, I just thought, because you guys both said you had similar plans after high school, that is…" Emma smiles imploringly, before looking down at her notes and reads out, "A musical theatre degree at Juilliard? Well, it would be nice to just talk to you both about it now. Two birds with one stone!"
"You!" Rachel screeches and directs a scathing glare at him like he's killed her entire family, "No way! There is no way you're allowed to follow me into my bright future! You are only doing this to further torment me!"
"Wow, egotistical much? Rachel, how's this: there are people outside of your self-absorbed bubble. Not everything is about you!"
"Pursuing musical theatre is my thing! JUILLIARD IS MY THINGI"
"For some reason, Rachel, every time you speak, it always comes across as something incredibly self-absorbed and obnoxious, so excuse me if I must have missed when you decided you were the only person allowed to go into musical theatre after high school."
Rachel looks back at Emma with a frustrated expression, "Miss Pillsbury, please tell me there is a way you can bar Kurt from applying for Juilliard as well, I mean, it is beyond obvious he is just doing this to torment me during college too! I suggest a restraining order."
"Well, I can't do that, but-"
Kurt laughs bitterly, "Oh, and you're such a joy to be around?"
"I am, actually! Especially compared to you!"
"Um, but that's sort of the thing, you two." They look at Emma at this, and she says simply, "You two both know that Juilliard doesn't have a musical theatre program, right?"
"What?" Kurt utters.
"That can't be right," Rachel says in a scared voice, "Musical theatre is my life, I would have noticed that by now, right? Right?" She looks at Kurt for help, but he just stares at Emma with a stumped expression, "Miss Pillsbury, you must have gotten this wrong, I mean-"
"I'm sorry," Miss Pillsbury tries, almost awkwardly, before she grabs two stacks of pamphlets and sets them out in front of the two, and, in a chirpy voice, explains, "But, you know, there are lots of other avenues for you two, as well. You don't have to go to Juilliard, I've prepared a few pamphlets of other colleges with esteemed musical theatre degrees and some are even here in Ohio-"
"I am not staying in Ohio!" They both shout, before glaring at each other, and Miss Pillsbury quickly throws the OSU one away, before she continues, "Oh, silly me, it seems I've dropped that one. Anyway, well, if you're interested in New York, there's the New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts, as well. In fact, they're having this fun little mixer later this week for those who are interested. You could meet people who are just like you two!"
Rachel and Kurt share a disbelieving glance.
"…Who are interested in NYADA… too. Um. It's all in the pamphlet. Or maybe, you know, you might end up liking any number of these other schools that would just be perfect for you two and your needs." She nudges the two sets of pamphlets in their direction, before looking expectant. Kurt huffs, grabs his pamphlets and shoves them into his messenger bag, and stomps out without a second word. Come hell or high water, Kurt Hummel is not sticking around this cowtown for a moment longer than he needs to.
---
"Kurt 'Porcelain' Hummel," Sue calls in a droll tone through her megaphone, causing half the corridor to cover their ears, "To my office immediately."
Kurt rolls his eyes, putting his books away in his satchel promptly, pushing his locker door shut, and huffing his way to Sue's office, just about slamming the door behind him, "What now?"
Sue leans back in her chair, eyeing him, "You are not wearing your Cheerios uniform."
Kurt sputters at this, "I am not wearing my uniform because I'm not on the team. You kicked me off, remember?"
Sue looks mollified by this, but still replies in a put-upon tone, "Well, I thought it was implied after the touching moment we had together last year at Jean's funeral that you were to be instated."
"There was nothing in that conversation that implied anything like that, thank you very much-"
"You're welcome."
"-and maybe I don't want to rejoin a team that is so flippant about shooting me out of a cannon."
"You don't mean that," Sue groans, like this entire conversation is just another tedious chore to her, "That uniform is the biggest status symbol in all of America, short of a crown of jewels, and even then, I have to wonder. Giving up Cheerios would be a gravely stupid decision to make, one that I wouldn't expect you to if you hold even a fraction of the intellect that I think you do."
Kurt turns his nose up, looking off before huffing out, "Okay, fine. I guess I'll rejoin."
Sue seems pleased by this, before jotting something down and handing it over to him. Only when he grabs it does he realize that it's a late slip. "I need you to go home and put that uniform back on. I'm sure it shouldn't be difficult for you because you probably use it as a rag for your tears every night when you remember you were kicked off the team with seven consecutive championship wins."
Kurt snorts, "And, oh, what happened to the eighth, I wonder? You know, the one you lost because you kicked me off the team?"
"Winners don't focus on the losses; it would do you some good to remember that when you're out of here, and failure follows wherever you go." Sue grits out, "Now get out of my office. If I am forced to see you in another one of those delightfully awful trilbies of yours, I'll kill myself."
Kurt leaves, smirking. Just another step marked off on his plan for an amazing senior year, then.
---
"Anyway," Santana takes a long slurp of her tea with an annoyed expression, "Now we're expected to do a little song and dance every time we see a purple piano in the school. I don't even know why the schools tolerate these stupid lesson plans Mr. Schue cooks up, it's not like the choir room doesn't have a whiteboard."
"I like purple pianos." Brittany says simply, before she thinks on it and asks, "Wait. Is that a euphemism?"
Santana rolls her eyes, "No, they're actually purple."
"Well, then, yeah. I tooootalllyyyy like purple pianos."
"It's really not that fun when you're in third period taking a test and you have to listen to Artie wailing in the other room." Santana scoffs, "God, this school sucks. It's a damn clown college, at this point."
"I like clowns…" Brittany tries.
Santana blanches, "What is with you today? You said you liked second-period history class, and you don't even know how the dinosaurs died out."
"Yes, I do," Brittany huffs, "It was when people started hunting them for food. We totally didn't need them anymore after we invented the wheel, which is totally messed up because I'd totally prefer to ride a dinosaur around instead of driving a car. But that's not really it, um, I kinda just wanted to ask… would you be mad if I transferred to McKinley?"
Santana's eyes go wide, "Transferring?"
"I've asked my mom and dad and they're totally okay with it, they actually think it's kinda romantic," Brittany explains, "And you said people aren't bullying you anymore, and Crawford sucks, and I wanna be with you and your club sounds awesome and you totally need more people to perform. I'm a people. Just saying."
Santana takes a long, grounding sip of her tea, before smiling, pleased, "Well, it is better than Crawford."
They're silent for a moment, Santana swilling the tea around in her mouth while she thinks, and Brittany stares at her, a touch sad, "…I won't transfer if you don't want me to."
"Are you kidding?" Santana basically throws her tea on the table to grab both of Brittany's hands happily, "You transferring would be, like, the best thing ever. They totally wouldn't even be able to handle our combined awesomeness, like, at all. But Britts, I really care about you. I don't want you to get hurt, or, like, suffer because McKinley can't help you out as much as Crawford would. It'd be selfish of me to doom you to a year of McKinley's godawful education."
Brittany's smile wobbles, and she nods, steadfast, "Well. Um. Don't worry. Crawford's tutors let me know they're still going to help me with my work even at McKinley, so yay! Yeah, so don't even worry about it. Totes."
Santana's grin grows and she grabs Brittany's other hand to swing them around, "Then that's totally awesome. We're going to be running that place like the Navy by the end of the week."
---
Shockingly, or not, the underneath of the bleachers never get any less dingy and musty every time Kurt finds his way depressingly under them. This time, he's here for a purpose, and not because he knows if the football team finds him in the halls, he'll get assaulted.
Quinn's got his back to him, but her awful Ryan Seacrest tattoo eyes him up like it's trying to unnerve him anyway. Roberta looks around Quinn's shoulder and calls out, "Hey, hottie."
Kurt's shoulders are drawn together when the rest of the skanks move to look at him, and Quinn's face blanches at his uniform, drawling out a measured, "Look who's back on the squad."
"Yes, I get it." Kurt sighs, "Laugh it up now because we're still having truth time after."
"Q, you need us to teach this guy a lesson?" One of the shorter girls says, chewing her gum threateningly at him.
"Um, I would prefer it if you didn't." Kurt squeaks out.
Quinn quirks a lip at his nerves, "No, I've got this." The skanks shrug and start lighting up another cigarette together, which makes Quinn stick one of her own into the flame of the lighter before she walks off with Kurt into the sunlight. She takes a huff of the cigarette, and the smoke curls out from her lips.
"Do you have to do that?" Kurt tries to hold his tongue, but fails, "It's just terrible for your skin."
"Do you know what's worse for your skin?" Quinn huffs, "Being a stuck-up bitch all the time."
Kurt glares at her, before standing up straight, dwarfing her height by an entire head, "Okay, seriously, that's enough. You are being ridiculous. What are you even trying to do? Ruin your entire future as much as your lungs? You don't show up to Glee, you aren't showing up to class, it seems like the only thing you do show up to do is lighting dumpsters on fire with the rest of those trainwrecks."
"Are you kidding me?" Quinn laughs bitterly, "How are they the trainwrecks, but the rest of that club isn't? That this school isn't? Really?"
"This is our senior year, Quinn." Kurt huffs, "We get one shot at this, and that's it. Our entire lives are going to be defined by how hard we work now. Do you really want to define the rest of your life by bumming cigarettes from old guys at truck stops and bad dye jobs?"
"And you're defining your life by letting your fear control you, just like every other year." Quinn snarks, "You went back to the Cheerios, you went back to Glee even though everyone hates you there, and you're probably still going to be stuck in that closet for as long as you live anyway. Don't tell me you're going to date a freshman now and continue the cycle?"
Kurt crosses his arms, and he huffs, "Oh, come on, you're dating a forty-year-old. Who skateboards. At least tell me when he ends up breaking a hip and you're forced into putting him into a nursing home, you'll think about rejoining Glee. You only get so many chances, so don't throw away this one."
Quinn takes a drag of her cigarette, looking conflicted as she holds the smoke in her mouth, before it billows out between the frustrated screw of her lips, "That self-important magnanimous shit is why I can't go back to that stupid club. I'm not benevolent to forgive the assholes there that screwed me over. I'm sure as hell not going back there to keep getting screwed over. Fuck that. At least the girls back there"-she points under the bleachers-"They understand that. They're not trying for sainthood forgiving the assholes that ruined their lives, and they're not going to force me to pretend a spade isn't anything else but a fucking spade."
She shakes her head, lets her cigarette brush her lips and she huffs out, "I thought you would've understood that too. The rage."
Kurt's fists unclench minutely, before he looks off, replying in an exhausted voice, "I do. But it's been my whole life, and I'm sick of it."
"Well, I'm not." Quinn laughs bitterly, "In fact, this feels like the only time I've accepted how fucking pissed off I am all the time. So, no, I'm not going to pretend anymore. This is who I am, so deal with it."
"But you're not just giving up on the club, you're giving up on yourself."
Quinn gives him a simple glance at this, before she shrugs, and looks down at her cigarette, "Yeah, well, looks like I was the last one." She walks off at this, effectively ending the conversation, for Kurt to call out, frustrated, "Glee still accepts lost causes, just saying."
Quinn looks back and throws up a middle finger before the shadows of the bleachers engulf her, and Kurt's stuck watching the lit cigarette weave itself back to the others.
---
Santana's putting her books away when Brittany sidles up to her locker, and that doesn't really surprise her, because Brittany will often waive class just to eat lunch with Santana two hours away in this cowtown, but what does make her eyebrows draw together is her outfit, more specifically, the crap she's wearing on her arms, "Hey Britts, what's with the bright blue arm warmers? The 1980s called, they want their fashion back."
Brittany frowns at them, "I thought they were cool."
"You should've stuck with the Crawford uniform." Santana snorts, closing her locker, and letting Brittany follow her down the hall, "It's not worth getting changed just to look like Party City threw up on you."
"Well, it doesn't matter now." Brittany shrugs, "I don't even need to get changed after this."
Santana stops and looks back at her confused because Brittany says a lot of things that don't make sense but somehow this is the one that makes her pause, and Brittany just hands her a sheet of paper, "Do you know where my locker is? Maps confuse me."
"Britts…" Santana says in a low, measured voice, "Did you…"
She sighs, not in an exasperated way, but instead, in a pleased way, one that makes her face move into a smile, happy, "Santana, this is my senior year. I'm gonna be totally depressed, like, all year if I can't spend it with my girlfriend and her friends."
"Oh my god!" Santana screeches, but she throws her into Brittany's arms, just to get spun around while Brittany laughs, "It's only been a day since you asked me, how the hell did you even manage it?"
Brittany shrugs, "My dad pulled a few strings. It's totally cool."
---
Brittany pulls her out into the courtyard. She doesn't expect much, but Santana's expression turns into an amazed one when the band immediately starts playing and Brittany starts singing in a clear, happy voice, "I don't know what it is that makes me love you so, I only know that I don't want to let you go,"
Santana's eyes go wide as she keeps singing, and pulling Santana down the steps with a grin, sitting her down and lauding her with, "It's crazy but it's true, I only want to be with you!" The smile comes unbidden to Santana's face as Brittany rushes around the courtyard and points at Santana, voice strong with conviction. She can't even be mad that she's listening to Brittany sing another painfully prudish song from the 60s like every day last year, because this time she's singing at her. Moments later, the Cheerios start crowding around her, skipping around her happily, and in a move that makes Santana squint her eyes angrily, Brittany pulls Kurt up into a spin and quick two-step, which he walks out of, confused. As the song ends, Brittany skips back over to Santana, grabbing her hands and moving her into a quick, casual salsa as the band hits the last note.
Brittany's breath comes out in heavy pants as she asks, "Can I be in your glee club now?"
"Maybe I want to keep you all to myself." Santana smiles, leans in, and then suddenly, a girl screams, and come the fuck on – it's just a kiss. She wasn't even planning on tongue. She pulls away to glare behind Brittany's shoulder, but then all she can see is the charred remains of the purple piano as fire consumes it. Quinn leans on the pole next to it, watching it with a smirk and Kurt further up on the steps innocently, dark sunglasses on.
"I didn't plan that," Brittany says, confused.
"Yeah, I bet the fuck you didn't." Santana huffs, "Well, better that than us. Let's scram before Mr. Schue finds out and blows a gasket, okay?"
Brittany shrugs, nods, links her pinkie with Santana's, and walks off.
---
"What are you doing here?"
"You are not allowed to be here!"
Kurt might have done a lot of awful stuff in his life. He's sure if Hell existed, Satan would probably look at Kurt's rap sheet, blow out an impressed whistle, and then ask, "Hey, so what are slushies actually metaphors for?" but he's not sure if it was ever bad enough to be worth having to end up in the same room with Rachel outside of Glee club. It's not even for a self-serving reason this time, unlike the last time they "hung out" outside of school hours.
This is to say, that encountering Rachel at the NYADA mixer annoys him. He would've expected her to stay at home braiding the hair on her Finn doll and trying to color the lopped-off hair of her Barbie in pink just in case people got confused why it was stabbed and charred. At the sound of each other's voice, they straighten and start to glare at each other.
"This is my mixer!" Rachel says in a harsh voice.
"That's funny, I thought it was a NYADA mixer." Kurt replies, firmly, "Not a 'Yay Rachel Berry So Cool and Awesome' mixer."
"Well, that spot at NYADA has my name on it and we all know it." Rachel huffs out, "It basically is a mixer to celebrate my future successes. So, whatever, you can stand out here and pretend like you have a shot all you want, but once you get in there and realize how keenly my talent trumps everyone else's, you'll only realize how out of your depth you really are!"
"The only thing you'll trump in that room is everyone's ego." Kurt huffs, "Just don't even look at me. The moment people realize I have spent more time than this mixer with you, they'll practically give me their spot to NYADA out of pity. And I like a little competition."
Rachel sputters at this, before stomping ahead of him, "I think you mean they'll be giving a spot to me! For dealing with you!"
The moment they both step inside, they barely take a second look at each other before rushing in opposite directions. Kurt ends up around a platter of delightfully colorful cupcakes and other assorted desserts. He's looking at the treats longingly, realizing the moment he takes a bite of any of them, Sue will probably run a damn bulldozer through this place to gouge the calories out of his body. He's so enthralled by the food that he doesn't even realize a boy is standing next to him, dancing on his tiptoes excitedly and squealing, "Oh my Gaga. You're a Cheerio!"
Kurt looks over at the voice with furrowed brows, eyes sweeping over the boy's jauntily sat sailor's cap and neckerchief covered in cartoonish life rings. In response to Kurt's scrutinizing gaze, he only sucks in a deep, overly excited breath, "I totes know you guys!!" He shrieks out in a rush, and Kurt jumps at how high his voice goes, "Ugh, I just adore your routines. They are just so fab, I am obsessed."
Kurt clears his throat, "Oh, um, thank you…?"
"I saw you guys perform at one of our football games last season!" The guy puts a hand to his chest, "Carmel pride!"
"Oh, really?" Kurt then asks in a confused voice, "Wow, um… So, you, like, actually… go to football games?"
"OMG, yes, silly! I was on the team! I'm a tight end." He then sighs in an overdramatic way, "Well, I was…"
"What happened?"
He giggles at this like Kurt's missing something, and it wouldn't surprise him, because he's totally still stuck on the cupcakes display in front of him from five minutes ago, "My boyfriend! Look at him, he's so sweet! And large, omigosh, did I just say that aloud? I'm so bad! That's him over there, hi sweetie!" The guy points through the crowd to a guy three heads taller than him wearing the same Alexander McQueen knee-length sweater Kurt lost in an eBay auction three months ago. The sweater reaches only slightly below his hips. Kurt can feel his eye twitch. The guy waves back and blows an overdramatic kiss their way, which the jaunty hat kid grabs animatedly, winking back happily.
Kurt purses his lips, and says in a dazed voice, "So everyone here is… gay?"
"Well, I totes can't speak for anyone else, but moi?" He sighs to himself, "100%. Yap. But it was not easy, have you ever been gay in Ohio? Cah-razy! So, what about you, hot stuff?"
"Oh, well, I, uh, no-"Kurt cringes, shaking his head, "I'm not… Well, I guess I'll just say I'm a special case."
"Darling, we are all special! Do you see another me here?" Kurt looks around and pointedly avoids answering, "That's the magic of being an individual. I mean, I only joined football in the first place to distract people from my lady-fabulous self, whilst being in love with my cutie patootie over there. We met on the team too and omigosh, he was soooo scared too. We couldn't have made it through high school without each other! Now, I just think; what da eff? Did I really do all that because I feared people knowing how fabulous I really am? Honesty hour, okay, tell me, do you think you see gays like me every day?"
Kurt blanches, "I… I'm just gonna go over there now." He rushes over to Rachel, who looks equally as awkward as Kurt feels, talking to a girl in a loud hair clip and animal sweater talking a mile a minute about Madonna's inferior portrayal of Evita in the film when he grabs her elbow and hisses out, "We need to get out of here, now."
"I agree completely." Rachel huffs, "This place is just – it's trying to psych me out. I won't let it traumatize me any longer."
"Wait, you guys can't leave!" A voice shouts out, and the girl's strong tone and effortless breath control make both of them freeze, "We haven't even performed for you two yet."
"You can't just leave without a performance!!" The guy Kurt was talking to says in an offended screech.
"I – We really should be getting home." Kurt cringes.
"He's right. I have to get home and complete my strenuous vocal exercise routine before I get my allotted eight and a half hours of rest." Rachel says in a frantic tone, "Surely, dedicated thespians such as yourself must recognize the importance of a consistent sleep schedule."
"Sit down!" The girl shouts, and Kurt and Rachel sit on the chairs that two girls push beneath them almost automatically before she smiles, and her white teeth glint in the light, "Thank you. Five minutes won't be an issue, right? To watch us perform?"
"I'm beginning to think we don't think we have a choice." Kurt drawls sarcastically into Rachel's shoulder, which makes her stamp a carefully polished Mary Jane on his toes.
---
"This is so humiliating." Rachel sobs out, kneeling at Kurt's feet with her head buried in her lap as Kurt bites at a hangnail nervously, "They're amazing and what do we have? Slushie-stains and three aborted school musicals."
Kurt quirks his shoulder awkwardly, "Well, we did do that mattress commercial once."
"That we almost got disqualified over!" Rachel screeches, head up, and glares furiously, "Face it, Kurt, we should just cut our losses now and save ourselves the humiliation. You should just ride the name of those bully Cheerios into a scholarship and leave me doomed to a life of community theatre. In Ohio." She weeps into her sweater, "So, fine. You win."
He blows out a breath that sounds defeated to his own ears. Rachel's right, even if he hates to admit it, for a bunch of nerdy Ohioan high schoolers, they were a well-oiled Broadway-bound machine and the Gerber baby was talented – in a way that shadows even Rachel, who is so dedicated to her craft that she posts a new cover to YouTube every Monday and Friday that gets exactly fourteen views.
But she's wrong about one thing – Kurt would rather kill himself than use the Cheerios name to get himself anything – especially not anything to do with a cheerleading scholarship. For as much as Blaine screwed his life up last year, his rant was right. Kurt could not care less about actually being a cheerleader – but he loves being a Cheerio. If being on that squad gives him the control over people to ensure his senior year is great, then he'll take it every time. But to be stuck riding his high school sports team for success for the rest of his life? Out of failure to follow his true passion? He can't imagine a fate worse.
Huffing, he looks down at her, "Fine. You can throw your own pity party, but I'm not staying here. And I'm not using the Cheerios name for anything. I'm going to get into NYADA because of my own talent whether you're up there fighting me every step of the way or not."
"The people in there are amazing, Kurt." Rachel whimpers.
"Then I'll be better."
She looks up at him at this, and her gaze is scrutinizing, eyes distinctly red and swollen as she says, "You didn't say that last year."
The night is quiet around them, and Kurt lets out a sigh, head hanging as he responds, "I am sick of letting my fear control me."
Rachel looks at the ground, wiping away tears soundlessly as her expression turns thoughtful before she stands up and forces a handshake, eyes burning into his, "Fine. Then we both try our best."
Kurt is stumped at her quick turnaround, but he masks it, a smirk taking over his face, "Of course. May the best diva win."
They shake on it.
---
"Welcome to our new member: Brittany!" Will jazzes his hands at Brittany, who looks pleased. Santana smiles smugly like there's blood in the water. The club claps lethargically, which makes Will quirk a confused eyebrow, "Is something wrong?"
"She lit one of our pianos on fire…" Artie mutters out from his breath, which makes Santana glare at him.
Brittany sighs out, put-upon, "Oh my god. I told you guys I don't know how that got there. And I totally promise that I am not feeding information about your upcoming setlists to my old glee club and everything."
This makes the entire club look at her, a mixture of confusion and suspicion, before Santana huffs out, "Britts didn't set that piano on fire, Quinn and Kurt did so leave Brittany alone. And I told you not to say that."
"Well, I'm not," Brittany argues back, steadfast.
Will looks at Kurt, betrayed, "You're the one who lit that piano on fire?"
Kurt puts his hands up, "I did not light it on fire. I simply poured gasoline on it. What happened after that was merely coincidence… such as Quinn lighting it on fire all by herself."
"Why were you even pouring gasoline on it?"
"Does that matter?" Kurt replies, turning his nose up, "You should be thankful I even helped you clean them up after this assignment was over."
"Kurt," Will begins, and his voice is so tense that the entire club straightens unconsciously, "I've let you get away with a lot. I've come to terms that you're not interested in singing with us, that you skip rehearsals, and when you do show up, you tend to just cause arguments and fights, but I've always accepted that because you seemed to like it here. That you got something out of this club… but this is my final straw. I'm kicking you out of the club."
Santana's eyes go wide, and Kurt's mouth screws together angrily, but surprisingly, Blaine's the first to argue, "You can't do that."
"I can." Will brushes him off.
"This club is meant to be about acceptance, and – and being flawed and different and whatever. He made one mistake! So what?"
"He damaged school property, Blaine." He argues back, and he tries to soften once he seems to realize he's arguing with a student – Blaine, of all people, "I know he's your friend and you're trying to protect him, but if this were any other student, it would be more than justified."
"Puck was in juvie, and that didn't change anything." Blaine huffs out, "You even invited Dave into the club last year and he assaulted Santana. What makes this any different?"
"I-"
Kurt stands up at this and puts a cautious hand on Blaine's arm, which makes him turn back, desperate, "I got it, Mr. Schue. I'm out. But thank you for trying, Blaine."
He then walks out. Brittany looks at the empty spot, scrutinizing it, before whispering, "Is it like this every lesson?" Santana nods, smirking and Brittany smirks gleefully at this.
A moment passes before Blaine is off, grabbing his bag and rushing out of the choir room. In response, Mr. Schue just turns away, sighing out the firm tension in his spine. The rest of the club seems to be struck with a shared shocked silence, before Rachel opens her mouth, and awkwardly sounds out, "Um, while I would be the first to admit Kurt was incredibly difficult to work with… Doesn't this mean we need two more members to qualify for competition now?"
Mr Schue's fingers drum on the close piano, and the rush of air he huffs out is heavy, "Right. Well, we'll just have to keep trying to get people interested in glee club, right?"
The club share dubious looks at this.